If you ingest grief parody is aqua foam and orange foam and broken glass. Now I’ve said everything I know about the nostalgia evoked by kissing your hand. 
No meditation spanning surfaces of the woods, no 
massage. No flavor of bullet points and none of cedar or balsa. So
there’s nothing to bifurcate to render your stinking utter degeneracy. 

May you come down with writer’s block in your rotten messianic parole.